


Ungrateful Wretches and Snappish Pimps

by zarabithia



Category: DCU (Comics), Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-21
Updated: 2006-11-21
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: Set in an alternate Smallville universe, in which Clark ran away to Gotham during his summer of Red Kryptonite.  He was found by Gotham's renowned pimp Thomas Wayne  during a "down time" and taken in by the Wayne family.  Years after Thomas' death, Clark opens up his own escort service.  Bruce is not pleased by Clark's "disloyalty."





	1. Chapter 1

Not quite two full years had passed from the time Clark slid on his ring and hijacked Jonathan Kent’s motorcycle for his drive to Gotham when Mr. Wayne decided that Clark needed to start earning his keep around Wayne Manor. Oh, Mr. Wayne didn’t call it that. The elderly man who had so nicely opened up his home to Clark was far too nice to say such things. So too was Mrs. Wayne. On days in which Clark’s invincible stomach failed him by aching with pure, human longing for home, Mr. and Mrs. Wayne reminded him a lot of his own parents - if a little more shrewd and involved in activities that would have made most of the residents of Clark’s forsaken but never forgotten hometown blush.

Still, as much as it made Clark blush to admit that the Manor he lived in doubled as a whorehouse and as hard as it was to believe that the devoted husband and father that had rescued Clark from both his own turmoil and life on the Gotham streets was also the city’s most renown pimp, Clark had always known that each day he spent in the Wayne Manor was merely leading up to the inevitable. 

So when Mr. Pennyworth came to him the night marking his twenty-second month in the Wayne household and announced that Mr. Wayne had arranged for his first "visitor," Clark wasn’t surprised. 

He was, however, utterly terrified.

To be fair to the family that had taken him in, that wasn’t their fault. Not quite two years had been plenty of time to adjust to his inevitable way of paying them back for their kindness. Besides, as Mr. Wayne’s partner, Mr. Fox, had explained, it was important for them to strike while Clark was still young enough to demand a premium price. 

At seventeen, he didn’t bring in as much as he would have two years prior. But he brought in more than he would have had Mr. Wayne waited another year.

Thus, on the second Saturday of April of Clark’s seventeenth year on Earth, he lied on sheets that had once been one of his favorite colors but would now forever be linked with the scent of tobacco, the taste of whiskey, and the rasping grunts of a man who should have been at the forefront of those who ready to lock Clark up for all the crimes he had committed not quite two summers ago.

And, of course, for the crime Clark committed on the crimson sheets.

But Gotham’s cops had never been interested in justice. Clark - and more importantly in his estimation, the Mr. and Mrs. Wayne - were quite safe from the hands of the law that ran over Clark’s skin. Those hands were calloused and not at all gentle, though Clark suspected they could be far more rough, even as his alien stomach betrayed him again by churning in pretense of being human. 

Still, for the sake of repaying the kindness of those that had taken him in, Clark gritted his teeth and gave the best performance he knew how with as much enthusiasm as he dared without hurting the other man. He found it an easier skill to fake when he ignored the hands that were present and instead thought of the set 100 feet and another wing away.

In the morning following Clark’s debut, those hands appeared folded in quite a displeased fashion behind Bruce Wayne‘s back. 

"You didn’t come down for breakfast," Bruce accused. 

"I wasn’t hungry."

"Clark, you’re always hungry," Bruce reminded him. 

That was all it took, a careless but well-meaning phrase from Bruce, and all of the sudden Clark could feel the Kansas wind swirling in his hair as he remembered his mother saying similar things to him as he'd come in from finishing chores that had never involved satin sheets. 

Satin sheets which were now black, instead of red, because those were the only colors Wayne’s hookers were allowed to choose. Clark didn’t like black, because it reminded him of the ring that had driven him here and the man he’d left behind, but the red ones were dirty from last night's activities. . . and Clark didn’t like lying in his own filth. He sat up anyway, in an effort to get as far away from the satin material as he could. The sheets pooled around his waist and Clark pulled them closer, relishing the cotton pajamas Mrs. Wayne had allowed him, despite Mr. Wayne’s contentions that they weren’t hooker appropriate. Clark had promised never to wear them for a job, and he’d kept that promise, managing to wait until Gordon had left before reaching for the comfort of a material that reminded him of home and contrasted starkly with the sheets that he slept on. 

"And Selina said she hadn’t heard anything from you since Gordon left," Bruce added. Clark hoped that didn’t mean Selina was worried about him. He liked Selina a great deal and didn't want to cause her any worry. She might have been younger than he was, but she was someone he looked up to a great deal. The fact that she was . . . close to both Bruce and Mrs. Wayne was a little odd, but Clark tried not to judge the people who had been so kind to him. 

But mostly, the way those green eyes sparkled at him reminded him of Lana and home. Or, at least, it reminded him of a Lana that could have been. . . a Lana that he hadn’t left standing crying in the barn. . . a Lana that wouldn’t have been ashamed of all that he had done. 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed in concentration, in a manner that would possibly frighten a great deal many potential johns someday but warmed Clark inside, in parts that had felt numb inside ever since his appointment had crawled off him. "You’re thinking of Smallville," he said angrily. Clark didn’t deny the truth, because he’d done a lot wrong in the past not quite two years, but he wasn’t a liar. Not yet. 

Bruce’s voice softened as he added, "I don’t like it when you think of that town. It’s going to take you away from me someday." 

"No it isn’t." Clark didn’t tell Bruce that sometimes, when Mrs. Wayne sent him in town for bread, milk, and new pillow covers, he ran to the edge of The Meteor Capital of the World and remained, always on the fringe of town that he had landed in. He didn’t tell Bruce because there wasn’t any point; he always came back. Clark knew that, as much as he wanted to see his parents again, the distant sounds of their voices - heard from the window of his Manor room - would be the closest he’d ever get to them again. 

"Yes it will. It will take you away from the city and job you hate. And it will take you away from me." Bruce scowled at him and lowered his voice. "Worst of all, I’ll have to like it. Because I’ll have to be glad that you aren’t miserable anymore." 

"Bruce. . . " Clark trailed off, searching for the right words. He did hate his job and Gotham was as far from Smallville as a city could be. But. . . "I’m not miserable when you’re around."

Bruce demonstrated his pleasure at Clark’s confession by sitting down on the bed beside him. "That’s good. If you stay. . . we’ll be partners. Dad says everyone needs a good one like he has with Fox. And you’re better with people than I am. I’ll handle the money and stuff and you can deal with the hookers. But you won’t be one." 

"Why?" It was out before he had a chance to take it back.

Bruce shrugged. "You hate it. I don’t like thinking about what other people are doing to my friend. If we’re partners, you won’t be miserable and I won’t be pissed. Works out good for both of us."

Clark studied the handsome face of the second man he’d ever told his secret to, thinking of Pete’s loyalty and Lex’s passion. Bruce was all at once neither, both, and more than either of those friends had ever been. "I’ll look forward to it."

The other man nodded and paused with uncharacteristic hesitation before continuing. "Clark, you’re okay, right? I mean, I know Gordon couldn’t have hurt you . . . but he treated you okay, right? Because if he didn’t. . . " the veiled threat hurt the part of Clark that ached for home, but the part of him that needed to be wanted was almost happy to hear the possessiveness in his friend’s voice. 

"No," he said truthfully. "He didn’t do anything he wasn’t supposed to."

"That’s good. Um, Clark? Look, I know I’m not very good at this, but. . .we’re friends, right?" 

"Yes." It was a soft answer, but a confident one. 

"You trusted me with your secret. You trusted me to let me run my experiments. I hope you know. . .if you want to talk about it - I’d listen. I mean, you can trust me with that, too. If you want. If you need to. And I promise not to call you girly or anything." 

Trust. It wasn’t something Clark typically associated with his current home, but everything Bruce had said was true. It had been so long - not quite two years - since Clark had felt the kind of companionship and understanding that Bruce was offering. To Clark, Bruce’s offer was as warm as the Kansas sun in July, and Clark drank up the rays greedily.

He managed to get three words out before his alien body once again betrayed him by pretending to be weak when he was not. His stomach lurched forward again, as the memories replayed in his mind and in rapid succession, was joined in the rebellion by an aching throat and watery eyes. By the fifth word, Clark couldn’t quite hold back the sob anymore.

Bruce caught him as Clark’s body wavered, and pulled him close. It was quite a broad chest, for an sixteen year old. But Bruce was determined to bulk up, because, as he had explained many times to Clark, pimps needed respect. And no one would respect a scrawny pimp.

Clark clung to the purple suede suit and allowed the material to muffle his sobs as much as possible, because there was simply no one else in Wayne Manor that Clark trusted enough to hear him cry. 

The embarrassment, shame, and rage of the life he was now leading left Clark slowly, one sob at a time. Bruce simply held his friend close and let him cry, not daring to utter any platitudes that even the son of a pimp knew wouldn’t do any good.

But he didn’t let go, and for that Clark was grateful. Moreover, Clark knew that whether or not they ever did become partners, he’d never forget the act of kindness Bruce had shown him the morning after his first trick.


	2. Chapter 2

Some people obviously had a problem with loyalty.

Take Clark Kent, for example. Hadn’t Bruce’s father taken the confused and lonely refugee from Smallville in during the summer following Clark’s sophomore year? After years of feeling like a freak, hadn’t the elder Wayne given the then-teen a purpose? Following the Kent family’s rejection of the son that had caused the lost of their unborn child, hadn’t the _entire Wayne family_ welcomed Clark into _their_ family?

The answer to all of those questions, of course, was yes.

Yet, how had the ungrateful wretch chosen to repay the Wayne family kindness? He’d waited not quite two years after the death of Thomas Wayne before striking out on his own, leaving behind the family that had provided so well for him to form his own escort service.

Bruce seethed in the driver’s seat of his Porsche as he maneuvered the streets of Gotham. Of all the audacious behaviors Clark had shown lately, the last one really took the cake. Calling his business an "escort" service, as though he wasn’t stealing away customers that had been the Wayne family bread and butter for over three generations.

It wasn’t a new tactic, Alfred had reminded his godson. There had always deflectors and those that had tried to challenge the hold the Wayne family possessed on the "comfort" services of the city. If the ungrateful bastard had been anyone but Clark Kent, Bruce would have relied on the Bertinelli family in the same fashion that his father and grandfather before him had.

But not only would the mobsters’ bullets probably not do a damn bit of good, the betrayer wasn’t any old nobody. It was Clark. The relationship they’d fostered since that summer ten years ago might not have mattered to Clark, but it mattered to Bruce.

Which is why Bruce suffered the humiliation of parking his car in the questionable safety of the garage next to the little shack Kent was calling a headquarters these days and tried hard to place his pride on a shelf long enough to have what he hoped would be a decent conversation. That was providing, of course, that Kent still had any idea of what it meant to be _civil_. It was entirely too likely of a possibility that the man had forgotten _that_ particular teaching of his father as well.

Turning sideways in order to adequately navigate his way up the rickety stairs that led to the office, Bruce wondered how Clark was ever going to promote his boys as an upscale _escort service_ when his center of operations smelled of body odor, vomit, and rotten food. The scents were probably seeping in from outside, Bruce supposed, but he still held Clark one hundred percent responsible for the fact that he was going to have to burn this suit when he returned to the manor.

After two unfortunate incidents during which Bruce very nearly succeeded in falling and breaking his neck - and the cynical portion of him wondered if Clark wouldn’t have been _delighted_ at that development - Bruce finally made it to the top. Completely ignoring the pretentious little sign that really didn’t belong in this dump asking him to buzz before entering, Bruce gave the door handle two quick jerks. Watching the door give in to his force was _almost_ was enough to put Bruce in a good mood.

The annoying brunette that greeted him put an end to that quick enough. "Can’t you read?" she demanded, irritation seeping through her voice.

Bruce shared her irritation, really. It wasn’t as though he _wanted_ to be here. "I need to see Clark."

"Mr. Kent is busy," the woman answered. "And you didn’t ring like you were supposed to." She came to stand directly in front of him, and Bruce couldn’t help but wonder if her wages were so low that this was honestly the best person Clark could have found for the job. His own assistant Vicki wasn’t _much_ better, but the very sound of her voice didn’t make Bruce want to stab his own eardrums. He really couldn’t say the same thing about the brunette in front of him.

Glancing behind her, Bruce noted a narrow hallway with several closed doors. One of them was assuredly Clark’s office. As gently as possible, Bruce grabbed the brunette by the waist and, in the midst of her protest, twirled her around so that the two of them had switched positions. She was trying to regain her balance as Bruce stomped off down the hallway.

None of the doors in the cramped quarters were marked, so Bruce simply began opening doors at random. He was treated to several rather impressive bodies that he had every intention of adding to the Wayne family business once he'd gotten Clark to see how foolish he was being. By the time he’d reached Clark’s office, the brunette woman had regained her balance and had resumed being annoying behind his back and next to his ear. To his immense irritation, Clark didn’t seem ruffled in the slightest at either his presence or the presence of the shrieking woman behind him.

"Mr. Kent, I tried -" she began, while Bruce gritted his teeth at the . . . _lived in_ feel of the room in front of him. It didn’t appear as though Clark had any intention of going anywhere anytime soon.

They’d see about that.

"It’s okay, Talia. I was expecting him," Clark said smoothly, and Bruce gritted his teeth a little harder.

"Oh." The woman sounded disappointed that Clark wasn’t going to throw him out, and Bruce gritted his teeth even harder at the realization that he was actually _relieved_ at the same knowledge- as if Kent had any right to try. "He could have at least rung the bell. I answer the calls _promptly_ , beloved."

Somehow managing not to choke on his own bile at the brunette’s words, Bruce waited patiently as Clark dismissed her before slamming the door shut.

His irritation continued to grow as Clark leaned unceremoniously back into his chair and commented, "You really shouldn’t grind your teeth so hard, Bruce. You’ll run up quite a dentist bill that way."

"I can afford it."

"Oh, of course. Was there something you wanted?"

"I thought you were _expecting_ me. Don’t you already know what I want?" Belatedly, he realized he really shouldn’t have phrased it in quite that manner - there were too many interpretations that Clark could have arrived at that had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Still, Bruce was delighted to see Clark momentarily look as tense as he felt. But the moment passed entirely too quickly.

"Gotham’s a big city, Bruce. There’s room for both of us."

"The hooker trade has belonged to my family for two generations, Clark." Bruce was having trouble controlling his temper, but he knew he had to keep it in check. For some reason, yelling at Clark always had the complete opposite affect that it had on everyone else. Unlike the people in Gotham who had the good sense to be afraid of the Wayne family temper, Clark only grew more stubborn when Bruce raised his voice.

That probably went along with his stupid invulnerability. Trying another tactic, Bruce suggested, "I’d be perfectly willing to offer you partnership, if you’re -"

"No."

It had been, in Bruce’s eyes, quite a generous offer. It certainly wouldn’t have been one that Bruce would have suggested to anyone who _wasn’t_ considered part of the Wayne family. "Dammit, why not?"

"I don’t owe you an explanation," Clark said, in a manner that was supposed to be cool, Bruce supposed.

"You don’t owe me an explanation? Kent, you not only left the family that has supported you for years, you took half of our workers with you! If you were anyone else, I would have already spoken to Helena about -" Bruce stopped, realizing abruptly that he was doing a horrid job of reigning in his temper. "My father loved you. I love you. You’ve made Alfred and my mother cry. You’re trying to destroy my business. You owe me a hell of a lot more than an explanation."

Bruce hadn’t seen the expression on Clark’s face since the day that Thomas Wayne had brought him home. Back then, Clark had been a very different man - constantly angry, bitter, and afraid. In the years since then, those layers had been stripped away, revealing what Bruce had believed to be the _true_ Clark Kent.

It was hard to keep that in mind when Clark rose out of his chair, shoved his desk out of the way with the same ease that some would move a remote control, and came to growl in front of Bruce. "I’m well aware of what I _owe_ you, Bruce. Since Thomas died, you’ve done nothing but remind me of exactly how _grateful_ I should be to your family. As if I wasn’t already."

Ah. There it was, that little tremble of the broken boy that Thomas Wayne had brought home all those years ago. The Clark that needed to be loved and cuddled had come out to play, and Bruce would have exploited that fact, if he hadn’t been so very, very confused. "What are you talking about? I’ve done no such thing." At Clark’s incredulous look, he added, "Okay. I might have been a bit . . . snappish lately."

"Snappish?" Clark repeated, eyes going wide with disbelief. "Bruce, y-you’ve changed." Clark said the statement full of reverence, stepping backwards and grasping his former lover’s face with both hands.

Bruce would have pulled away and been quite bitter - Clark knew how he felt about all this _touching_ outside of the bedroom. But Clark had stopped touching him three weeks before he’d left the manor. . .and Bruce felt quite entitled to enjoying the touch.

It was probably the emotional blackmail that the feel of Clark’s hands was causing that prompted Bruce to allow Clark’s ramblings to continue. "I know your father’s death was painful for you. It hurt _me_ too. But there’s no excusing the person you’ve become."

"My father’s business is a harsh and demanding one, Clark."

"I know _your father’s business_ as well as anyone. And probably a lot better than you do, considering he never put you to work out on the streets."

"Then you know that in order to survive in the business, I have to be equally as harsh and bitter," Bruce scowled as Clark’s hands left his face. His irritation spurred a further hateful retort. "But then, apparently you’ve forgotten that. Because you seem to actually _believe_ that a successful empire can thrive on luck in the midst of this dump."

Clark completely ignored Bruce’s latter statement and continued his own tirade. "Dick is afraid of you," he commented, and that hurt as much as an unrestrained slap from Clark’s hand would have. The beautiful blue-eyed boy had been the first recruit that Bruce had secured for his father’s business, and Thomas Wayne had been very proud of that particular accomplishment. Similarly, Bruce had been very proud of the way Clark had trained the young circus runaway in the skills of his family‘s profession.

"That’s nonsense. He fouled up a job. I let him know that further screw-ups weren’t acceptable."

"You threatened to fire him and toss him out on the street," Clark corrected, "Two years ago, you would have been as horrified as I am at the very mention of that threat."

"Dick’s a sensitive boy. . . too sensitive, maybe," Bruce muttered, in an attempt to defend himself.

"Yes, he is. But Jason and Tim are not, and they’re afraid of you too. Why else would all three of them have come with me when I left?"

"Is that why you left?" Bruce had meant to sound stronger - his father had taught him early on that a pimp needed to be resolute in tone and demeanor. But the idea of his boys being afraid of him. . .of them _going to Clark for protection_ because Bruce had driven them away. . .it stung.

Then Clark sighed, and it broke Bruce’s heart a little more. "No, Bruce. I left because you gave me every indication that the man I fell in love with was buried along with Thomas Wayne, and I was never getting him back."

"Why didn’t you just _tell_ me that?" Bruce snapped. Stupid, melodramatic Clark and his stupid melodramatic statements that annoyed Bruce so much.

"I told you every day. You chose not to listen."

Clark sounded absolutely heart-broken. As much as that hurt Bruce, it also gave him hope. "Clark, I know I’ve changed a lot over the past two years. But I still care for you."

"I still love you too, Bruce," Clark responded, and Bruce was relieved to know that his meaning had gotten across. Pimps weren’t allowed to be soft, dammit.

"Then what can I do to make you come home?" ‘And bring our boys,’ Bruce didn’t add.

Clark closed the gap between them, and laid one of those warm hands on Bruce’s chest. This time, Bruce didn’t even care that it was emotional blackmail, because the touch was enough to prove that he hadn‘t screwed up beyond all repair. It was a welcome reassurance. "Prove to me that the man I fell in love with is still in here," Clark responded, thumping Bruce’s chest lightly. "Show me that the young man who held me as I cried after my first trick, the one that begged so sweetly to be allowed to conduct science experiments to test my invulnerability, the one that soothed away all my teenage fears one caress at a time - show me he’s still here, and I’m all yours."

"Clark -" As had been the case many, many times in their relationship, Clark stopped whatever argument Bruce was going to offer by leaning in and kissing him.

It was a completely unsubtle way of reminding Bruce of everything he’d nearly lost. As he left the rundown shack Clark was calling an office, Bruce swore he’d do everything in his power to get it back.

Even if he had to grovel in a fashion that no self-respecting pimp ever should.  



End file.
